Losing
by Lantarmiel
Summary: Alfred loses often. But this time, the blood has been shed, the rhetoric recited, and all that remains is the love.' Actually a Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead fic, but I suppose it's best put here. RosencrantzGuildensternAlfred.


**Title:** Losing

**Author:** Lantarmiel

**Pairing:** Rosencrantz/Guildenstern/Alfred

**Warnings:** Threesome, nudity, sexual situations

**Disclaimer:** Rosencrantz and Guildenstern technically belong to Shakespeare, but they're in the public domain by this point. Alfred belongs to Tom Stoppard, who is possibly the most brilliant playwright since Shakespeare himself.

**Notes:** Inspired by seeing the Shakespeare Theatre of New Jersey's production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead last summer. The characters in my mind are like the ones in the play I saw, not the movie—especially Alfred. He's supposed to be a very slight teenaged boy. I was planning on making this actual smut, but it just got all not-smutty on me at the end. One of these days I'll get around to it…

Alfred loses often.

In reality, it is the Player who loses, but Alfred is always the one to pay the price. He has learned to escape the moment, to dissociate himself from the body being used.

It isn't hard, really. Once he puts on the dress, he isn't himself anymore. His back arches, chest pushed a little bit out, and his hips swing from side to side. Alfred is somewhere else.

He's never quite figured out where 'somewhere else' is, but sometimes he thinks that's better. If you don't know anything about a place, you don't know that it's as bad as the one you've left.

This isn't the first time he's been lost to two men at once. He knows what he will be expected to do and have done to him.

Or at least, he thinks he does.

These two aren't loud, hulking, stupid brutes. One is curious, nearly childlike in his inquisitiveness. Rosencrantz. The other is his protector, who wants answers to comfort them both. Guildenstern. No one else seems to be able to keep them straight, but Alfred has a knack for seeing things other people don't care about—for instance, that these two want each other more than they want him. And that neither of them can admit it.

"Take off that dress, Alfred," the protector says, his voice and expression displaying disgust at the offending garment.

Alfred tenses. He has never been called by name at a time like this; never had it acknowledged, even hinted in the tone of voice, that he is not playing the woman for his own benefit.

He nods, biting his lip and reaching around, thin fingers untying the laces at the small of his back. He pulls apart the sides of the bodice, then shrugs the dress over his slim shoulders, letting it fall into a heap on the floor.

Both of the men gasp a little bit at this. Alfred thinks that the protector has realized just how pretty Alfred really is, and the curious one has realized just how male Alfred is.

"Now you two," Alfred murmurs. "It's only fair."

The two men nod, quickly moving to undress themselves. Soon they stand, three men in a candlelit room, staring at one another.

It is again Alfred who takes the lead, surprising even himself with uncharacteristic boldness, as he walks to Guildenstern—better to let Rosencrantz observe first—and rises on his toes to place a soft kiss on the tall man's mouth.

He wavers, off-balance, and the protector's warm hands instinctively wrap around his waist to steady him. Alfred presses himself closer, his hands moving to broad shoulders as he deepens the kiss.

Rosencrantz lets out a squeak, watching his protector and the actor. Alfred pulls back, his once-pale cheeks flushed.

"Come here," he instructs, reaching his hand out.

Rosencrantz steps forward, taking the offered hand. Alfred pulls him close, trapping their clasped hands between their chests as he kisses the inquisitive one.

It is different; kissing these two instead of the other men he has lost to. Kissing someone as himself. Alfred finds that he likes teaching these two, likes knowing what to do.

Guildenstern's hands have stopped supporting him, and now begin to roam across Alfred's back, hesitating at his waist for a short moment before moving lower, squeezing gently.

Alfred gasps softly, his hips jolting forward. Rosencrantz pulls away sharply, startled by the sound.

Alfred smiles. "Him, now," he whispers to Rosencrantz, bringing their intertwined hands to Guildenstern's chest.

Rosencrantz nods, glad to be told what to do. He leans into Guildenstern, eyes wide, and they kiss. Alfred can do nothing but watch for a moment— it's beautiful to see them finally together.

Then he decides that enough is enough, and that they need to speed things up before anyone gets carried away. He slides one hand from Guildenstern's shoulder to his chest, brushing it over an exposed nipple. Guildenstern moans softly as Alfred bends to lick at the flesh. He is vaguely aware that the others have stopped kissing, and so he pauses, glancing up at them.

"It might be prudent to change position," Guildenstern declares, glancing at the large bed off to the side.

They do, untangling themselves and sitting down on the edge of the bed, Alfred between Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. It is a somewhat awkward moment; everyone knowing instinctively just how far this night will go.

But then all three lean backwards and become a tangle of limbs, and there is no need for any more words. The blood is shed, the rhetoric recited, and all that remains is the love.

Hours later, curled around the inquisitive one with his head on the protector's chest, Alfred thinks that this time, the Player is the only one to lose.


End file.
